Three sisters rush into the clearing from three, seven, eleven, arms and hair flying, chins up preparing for the collision that secures their futures together. The jolt is not painful as we might think but metamorphic. Together a larger version of themselves roots, individual skirts polished by wind still frozen in their final flourish. Faces hidden in conversation but limbs stretched toward birds in an ecstasy of wonder. This was generations ago, and they are still talking. We hear them when the wind is from the west.